


Poetry Portfolio

by PEMercy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Real Events, Personal Musings, Poetry, Political Beliefs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28784091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PEMercy/pseuds/PEMercy
Summary: I am putting up a few of the poems I wrote during my creative writing class. It is one of the first things I've posted on AO3 and the first thing I released in a while. I'm proud of this poetry, and wanted to share it with the world. Thank you for clicking on it.
Kudos: 1





	1. 1. Misty Morning

Anxiety turns in my gut,

my body shivering in the brisk air

as I trudge back from breakfast

on the misty morning.

Golden silhouettes dance,

bounding through the dew-laden trees.

A gentle chill whispers.

Beams of fresh sunlight infuse warmth in my body

and the mist begins to settle.

Birds welcome the dawn with lilting voices,

a cheerful hymn rings in the air.

A splash of chestnut flits before

my eyes. I inhale softly,

my chest quivering with excitement.

The air seems to soften.

A doe raises her head,

eyes wide and curious.

Her fawn is obscured

by the long grasses.

Large, soft eyes meet mine,

in the burning mist of morning.

Cup-like ears forward,

silently watching.

The moment is broken 

by the awakening campus.

Raucous chatter and clumsy footsteps

clatter in the still air.

She bounds away,

gracious and silent,

And I am left alone,

as if we had never met.


	2. 2. Harvest Silence

sweetly silver-strewn steppe,

soothing sighs the stream

across the wooden bridge.

the grasses drip with dew that will soon become 

frost. the fields lay silent,

all chirping and rustling has been laid to rest.

russet leaves are floating gently to the

ground, preparing for their blanket of crystal.

soon even the whispers of the brambles will fade

into the gentle stillness of rime.

the last of life is sleeping;

sparkling stars shimmer;

softly sprinkled splotches.


	3. 3. The Master Sculpter

The sun streams through the trees. The golden heat glitters in the river. 

A lone branch, stripped of bark and whitened by time 

and dust pierces the ripples. Brown feathers ruffle and, sitting

elegantly on the bough, there is an eagle. The yellow beak tears 

at its prey. The gentle river murmurs, softly pulling in the crumling riverbank,

absorbing the sweetened clay. An army of insects’ chirp and whistle.

The river brush sways in a mellow breeze, waving hello to the small

wispy clouds. Wildflowers open their dark eyes, blinking pollen away, exposing

their artist’s palette. The sweet scent of spring permeates the sleepy air. The

tender river purls over stones, smoothed by time. A course flowing forever,

and a brief moment lost in the passage of time, the serene carving

hands of the master sculptor, the ever bubbling river.


	4. 4. Impassioned Musings

Last night I was sitting in my room,

Swaddled like a newborn

Hiding from the chilly fall air.

I curled around my phone,

Checking Twitter,

Looking for Kpop fancams or comebacks,

And my heart dropped.

NPR- Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg Dies at age 87.

I felt the smile melt off my face.

I had just listened to a radio host debate,

Between Samra Brouks—

A Democrat who wants to defund the police

And have healthcare for all and who supports #Blacklivesmatter—

And her opponent, Republican Christopher Missick,

Who refuses to denounce President Trump,

Who doesn’t care if three percent of New Yorkers die

Because they can’t afford to be alive..

But RBG is dead.

So much rested on her shoulders,

GRSM rights, which have been debated because who cares about someone’s identity,

When religious bullshit from some antiquated book,

whose moral teachings include stoning virgins and gays,

matters more than their right to be themselves.

The rights of women, because to some a bunch of cells matter more

Than a woman's right to her own body.

Doesn’t matter if she dies, what she wants, if she cries,

And once she’s been forced to carry her burden, make her pay for it alone..

At eighteen I donated to my first political campaign.

I might’ve messed up my credit card numbers and needed to call the bank,

But that doesn’t mean I don’t matter.

I hate when people say all lives matter.

Of course we all matter,

But Black Lives are in danger.

So #Blacklivesmatter.

We shouldn’t need to march to prove that.

To tell that to the ruthless hands of police who murdered

Daniel Prude, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Trayvon Martin,

Ahmed Arbury, Atatianna Jefferson, Aura Rosser.

The fact spellcheck always tries to fix Black names,

Like even they are broken.

Black bodies have been broken by white slavers, lynch mobs, and terrorist groups,

They are still broken by racist white, Black, brown, and Asian police officers,

They are still broken by the racist policies of President Trump, Joe Biden, Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan.

Law and Order! War on Drugs!

Police Brutality and white Order! War on Black bodies and cities!

How are they any different?

There still is hope,

Antiracists are filling the streets. We’ve

Had enough. I want to run for office

Someday. I just have to fight so

That there’s an office to run for.


	5. 5. Criminal

Our laws are different than theirs.

I want to be a soldier,

A hero, an officer, we’d say.

In houses where blue uniforms hung

Like hunters rifles.

By flashlight,

We crept after each other,

Across the silent football field.

Our long shadows stretched across the sidelines,

As if they were watching a game..

We flashed our lights in their eyes,

Blinded by the reflecting metal stands

As we rushed the brawling men.

We saw their fight

For what it was.

We grabbed their torsos,

Then the wrist and arm- of a resisting offender.

Some of them escaped.

Their burly bodies whipped by undergrowth

As they fled from our sight.

They could have mistaken us as for a neighbor,

But like animals in the dark,

They committed their crimes.

Like black charcoal,

I tackled a man near me.

I read him his rights,

And he averted his dark malicious eyes.

We had a protocol,

They did not use, a name

For blackness. We called it criminal.

Inspired by: Terrence Hayes' “Touch”


	6. 6. When I Have Passion and When I Need Courage and My Mind is Flooded With Memories, I finally Know What it Means to Love

**When I have Passion**

There is no glittering water in my oasis,

only waves of blanched plastic and ebony wedges floating above the surf. My ions

become fused to this bench, shaking fingers caress the ocean’s milky temperance. Here time

spans

unevenly, like the dragging tempo of millions of years summed up in the sharp tang of a second. 

No-

thing can pull me away from my shiny bold-faced love, the harbour for the ship of my passion, 

my piano.

**And when I need Courage**

Crouched like the barbed fangs and silent poise of a golden cougar

my heart beats in triplets, filling with dark blood, my lungs slowly expand before the

race.

My eyes become fixed on my toes below me, and the azure backdrop is still like polished

glass. The shrill whistle echoes in my ear

and I can feel my world tip as I begin to bend over. My fate hangs over this crag 

and I am not content with leaving it to chance. Like a pouncing mountain lion, I leap off the 

precipice and into the water as the glass shatters into white foam. For the spirit of 

competition there is no cure.

**And my mind is flooded with Memories**

Today I am a dream. There is the same old familiar gray frame, now paired with a

freshly painted purple door, adorned with some elaborate wreath looming in my vision. I

become immerse

-d in my evolving mind, the bubbly and soft moments as a child, so unlike the crisp memoir

of today, written in flashes. In a small living room, the couch is an ugly off white

with stitched black stars, a beat up orange rocking chair sits empty, facing the old boxy

TV set. A pot simmer-

s in the distant kitchen. Old green carpet curls under my small feet. And yet, my heart is sore.

Instead of the rustling of an active household, I am met with silence. Where I should see smiling

faces, my gaze is filled with a single empty white rose.

**I finally know what it means to Love**


End file.
